


In your eyes I'm holding mine

by Resamille



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-War, diplomat lance, idk man this just got real gay that's all i have take it, is now, is that a tag, mentions of adopting a child?, plot what plot there's just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 07:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10737201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resamille/pseuds/Resamille
Summary: In the light of this planet's magic, Lance shines like an angel.(The night is quiet, the company gentle, and Keith is so, so in love with his husband.)





	In your eyes I'm holding mine

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what this is just take it.  
> Title from Perfect by Ed Sheeran.  
> I am Tired™

The night air hits the back of Keith's neck, uncharacteristically cool, and he scowls, resisting the urge to tug away the tie holding his hair up, but Lance had insisted. Because Lance has a thing for it, and besides, if he let it down, the carefully braided locks tucked behind his ears courtesy of Lance's little sister would be hidden in the tangle of his hair when it's left to its own devices.

And speaking of Isabella, Keith was  _ supposed _ to be watching her.

Well, fuck.

Keith smooths his expression into one of pleasant neutrality—or at least as close as he can get it—as one of the planet's inhabitants approaches, curiosity in their glowing gaze. He tries to keep from looking anxiously over the Keelin's shoulder, because it's even weirder to look  _ through _ them, with the way their spine and ribcage peek out between swaths of flowing fabric.

Like animated skeletons, the Keelin remind Keith of something out of a gothic fairytale. Elegant clothing decorating bones held together by nothing more than magic, the blue glow of it replacing the need for muscles or tendons. Keith tries very hard not to stare at the antlers curling out of this one's bird-like skull, but he might have failed in the way his greeting comes out as a stammered reply.

Twin flames for eyes flicker frivolously at him. “You haven't visited with us, before, have you? My name is Elmar. I am the Keelin head of public relations.”

“Nice to meet you,” Keith replies, attempting to discreetly glance around him for Isabella. Where'd the little gremlin get off to? She's worse than Pidge, he swears. “I—no, uh, I haven't. My partner has, though.”

And Lance, too, where the hell did Lance get to? He  _ knows _ Keith is bad with this whole post-war intergalactic diplomacy bullshit. Keith worries the ring on his left hand, absently cursing Lance's name.

“Well, I do hope you enjoy it here. The Blue Paladin seemed very interested in our performances during his last visit. I hope you'll participate with him. Ah—Fiva, wait up! If you will excuse me...”

“No problem...” Keith mumbles, and then frowns. Performances?

Lance has something up his sleeve, and Keith's not happy about it.

Now if he only he could find him to tear him a new one.

In the crowd of pale white and flowing fabric, Keith catches a glimpse of brown hair, and he dives forward, nearly knocking over a high table full of carefully placed chalices. He feels the wisp of softness brush past him as he squeezes between two very decorated Keelin, and his fingers ghost over skin when he reaches out.

A quiet giggle.

“Oh, hell no,” Keith groans. “I'm not chasing you—Isabella!”

“C'mon, Uncle Keith,” Isabella croons, twirling fast enough that her long hair catches in the air and dances around her shoulders, waving tauntingly. He's not really her uncle, but somehow the name stuck in Lance's immediate family. “Lance has something planned,” she singsongs.

“I know,” Keith grumbles, sidestepping around another party guest to cross his arms in front of Isabella, which would be a lot more intimidating if she wasn't practically the same height as him, having the same giraffe genes that Lance does, long legs peeking out from under a loose, silky dress. “And apparently you're in on it.”

“Nope,” Isabella replies, popping the 'p.' “I've just been here before. I know what he's up to. It'll be good, I promise.”

“You take far too much pride in knowing about our love life,” Keith growls.

“Someone's gotta bring all the good gossip home,” Isabella purrs, twirling again and snatching a chalice off the tray from a passing waiter. She's not officially old enough to drink at sixteen, but Keith can't really blame her. Being an apprentice diplomat—especially  _ Lance's _ apprentice—has to be trying. Though at this point, Isabella has learned more in the past two years than Keith probably has ever, and he's been doing this for... what? Six years now? How long has it been?

Six. Definitely six. Because that's how long he's been married.

“The stars are nice out, right?” Isabella says offhandedly.

Keith quirks an eyebrow at her, scowling. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” she hums innocently. “Oh look, there's Lance.”

Keith whirls, searching the crowd. God fucking dammit— _ again _ . Every time. He still hasn’t learned on that one, and Isabella knows he’s weak. 

“Isabella!” he calls exasperatedly over his shoulder. Already gone, as per usual.

It's  _ fine _ , Keith reminds himself. Peaceful planet; she's trained in basic combat; wits on par with Pidge's. There's a reason—well, a multitude—why Lance agreed to take her back into space when they eventually had to leave Earth again, this time with a promise to return. It had been a trial convincing Lance's mom to let Isabella go, but she'd proven herself by far.

So it's  _ fine _ .

Except that now Keith is alone in the middle of a crowd, wishing he could blend into the forest surrounding the clearing rather than keep up appearances as the Red Paladin.

Then all the lights in the clearing go out.

Silence descends, except for the rustling of fabric. Someone claps a hand over Keith's mouth from behind, dragging him away. He flails wildly, fear spiking his heart rate up and ready to elbow his attacker in the gut when Lance whispers against his ear. “Relax, I got you.”

Keith bites him.

Lance yelps quietly, but it's still too loud in the silence, and snatches his hand back. “Those are  _ sharp _ ,” Lance hisses.

“You liked them last night,” Keith fires back in a growl, glaring pointedly at Lance after his eyes adjust to the darkness, illuminated just by starlight and the glowing organs of the Keelin.

“While you're not wrong, that's not the point of conversation at the moment,” Lance whispers, planting his hands on Keith's shoulders and directing him to look to where the crowd is clearing away. “Watch.”

“What are...” Keith trails off as the Keelin around them begin to dim, their magic dulling to a barely-there flicker of light.

Across the circle of Keelin, a single body begins to blaze brighter, encompassed by the blue glow, cool and soothing, of their people. Another steps forward from somewhere to Keith's right, and they come together in the center. For a single moment, they still before each other, and then sidestep in sync.

And the dance begins.

Keith's breath hitches as he watches, because the despite the underlying creepiness of the Keelin, they are  _ beautiful _ . In silence, they twirl together, bony fingertips brushing, catching on fabric only to release as it flows through the air, exposing ribs and spines, then fluttering down, billowed out by magic that's slowly changing color, from icy to warm, a deep orange settling first where their fingers curl together, and spreading as their footwork increases in complexity.

Someone starts a beat, a hard stomp turned to a drum. The circle picks it up, and the dancers do too. One laughs like the twinkling of bells, the other's like the rumble of thunder on a summer's day.

Lance loops his arms over Keith's shoulders, letting his head rest against Keith's temple, and Keith presses back against his chest. He feels ethereal, like stardust and fire. Permanent and fleeting at the same time. He's drawn in, like this is something bigger than him, and the dancers before him stare at him—through him? Through the crowd? Do they see anyone else except for each other?

“The colors mean different things,” Lance whispers against his ear, and Keith shudders against him, curling more resolutely into Lance's hold.

“What's orange?” Keith whispers back.

“Family.”

Keith nods, barely, and feels Lance's hair brush over his skin, and then his lips as Lance presses a kiss to his cheek, breath fanning across his face. It smells faintly like the berry wine the Keelin served earlier.

The two performers break apart, arms raised and euphoric in their gestures, laughing wildly, and then they take one step into the crowd and merge back in, glow dimming. The light still burns behind Keith's eyelids.

Another Keelin begins to glow from across the clearing.

“The crowd shares their magic with the dancers,” Lance explains in a voice like the brush of velvet, soft and comforting. “Also it just looks really cool.”

Keith breathes out an awed little laugh, as the smaller Keelin stops at the center and holds out a hand towards the crowd, in Keith and Lance's general direction, but a little off. There's a shuffle of movement, and then—Isabella steps into the circle.

She doesn't glow in the same way as the Keelin, but her skin is cast in a gentle hue, blood bioluminescent with the magic trapped against her bones. A temporary gift from the planet. She tilts her head back, hair fanning out with the movement, and laughs as the magic under her skin trickles into something more concentrated, veins of blue glow illuminating across her body like neon signs, intricate patterns breaking out. Veins of crystal in the surface of smooth rock.

“Dammit,” Lance huffs against Keith. “I told her to wait until next time.”

“Probably my fault. I let her slip away.”

Isabella spins, clicks her tongue, and sends finger guns firing in Lance's direction.

Lance sighs, overdramatic, and his chest presses closer against Keith's back with the movement. “She would have done it anyway. I don't know where she gets it from.”

“Don't you?” Keith hums.

Lance pinches his arm.

Keith swats at him gently. “Stop distracting me I'm trying to watch.”

Isabella's grin is wide, movements elegant as she takes the Keelin's hand, body dipping into a low, well-practiced curtsey. Her partner returns with a bow, and then they come together, close in a single step, before Isabella spins out.

Her dress flutters, fabric reminiscent of that of the Keelin, and as her partner steps around her, encasing the careful twirl with their glow as they hold Isabella's hand above her head. When they're behind her, Isabella falls back, caught in their arms for a moment before she twists away, swaying her hips in a choreographed chase. Keith wonders if this is planned, or if the magic of the Keelin connect the dancers on a deeper level to make the performance run smoothly.

The crowd takes up a gentle hum, adding music to the night air as Isabella's partner catches at her hand, tugging her back, and then dips her over their other arm. She keeps going, falling low until she lifts the curve of her long leg and flips entirely, landing steadily with a wild gaze and wilder grin. The color of their glow, Keith realizes, has changed, though it's been so subtle that Keith only notices because it's clearly not blue anymore.

Instead, it's a warm yellow, like sunlight, tinted dark occasionally by a streak of purple.

“Fuck no,” Lance growls, tightening his hold on Keith. “Isabella and I are going to have a  _ talk _ about crushing on foreign relations later.”

Keith laughs, and it drowns into the rising hum of the crowd as Isabella's partner lifts her into the air, skeletal fingers curling carefully against her waist. She descends into the billow of fabric around them.

“What color is that?” Keith asks.

“Yellow is friendship. Purple is affection,” Lance clarifies.

“It's only on her,” Keith observes.

“Because Elias is already in a relationship,” Lance says. “Her dance partner, I mean. Their name is Elias.”

Keith nods slowly, eyes glued to the performance, and he catches the glow of another Keelin from somewhere in the crowd. The song filling the air intensifies, with the clack of bones added in a tapping rhythm. Isabella throws her arms open, and twirls away, blending, dimming, into the circle once more, and in her place, two other Keelin join Elias in the center.

From yellow, Elias's color turns deep red almost instantly. They're joined by the two others, blue glow shifting to dark purple, and then the trio blends together to maroon as the other two crowd around Elias, fingertips ghosting over fabric, twitching against their bones, whispers of words lost to the cool night air.

“What's red?” Keith asks, watching as the hue of the dance shifts between lavender and crimson, and sometimes anything in between. There are moment where it pales significantly, slipping towards a colorless blankness before the red darkens over it.

“Desire,” Lance answers, letting his fingers slips down to Keith's hips, playing futilely with the button-down that's tucked into Keith's pants in an attempt to tease the skin underneath. Keith can feel the pout against his cheek when his plans are foiled.

The dance now, with Elias at the center of it, is slow but heated. Fleeting touches, teasing movements in the way Elias shudders when one of their partners ghosts their fingertips along their spine. The aura around them reaches of the others, curling like smoke as the magic branches out at Elias reaches for them.

Keith doesn't know if it's planned—the way all semblance of elegance is dropped when the other two duck forward, catching Elias between them and lifting them into the air with the trusting ease of lovers. There's laughter, blending into the hum of the song, and it adds to the swell of music like just another instrument accompanying the ensemble. Keith finds himself laughing with them, while Lance hums into his ear.

It's an experience. All of it. Keith feels his heart swell. God, space is terrifying, but sometimes— _ sometimes— _ they find some quiet miracle in the midst of the void, and this is one of them.

The trio slips away, hands linked as they fade into the circle, and then a single Keelin emerges.

They dance wildly, to the beat of a new drum, some mixture of the clack of bones and the stomp of feet and the boom of thunderous laughter, of voices built for singing like the universe doesn't matter anymore. Like all the others, they start out blue, and then shift to teal, and then a mossy green.

“Acceptance,” Lance breathes. “It's a coming-of-age ceremony.”

“Oh,” Keith says softly.

And he feels it, the way the song is almost directionless and the dance implies the tone. It starts out frantic, all flailing limbs and jumps and filling the empty space of the circle with motion. The something shifts, the movement becoming more fluid, more controlled, and the flow of fabric as the performer backflips across the clearing is elegant rather than childish. It's like watching a ballet dancer finally learn a move: the way it goes from choppy and discontinuous to effortless.

As the Keelin recenters themselves, twirling into place, eyes twinkling with flames the color of forests, Lance nudges Keith with his shoulder.

“Let's do it,” he whispers.

Keith's heart skips a beat. “I'm—I can't dance that w-well—you know this.”

“Doesn't matter, I promise,” Lance says against his skin, and then steps towards Keith's side, hand slipping into his with ease. “I've done this before.”

Keith looks at him, the glint of his eyes in the starlight while the green glow fades behind him. Like it is with everything when it comes to Lance, Keith melts into the encouraging smile, the soft squeeze of his hand, the soft glow starting to bloom under his skin.

“You're impossible,” Keith breathes, and there's a quality of reverence to his voice that doesn't go unnoticed.

Lance doesn't bother teasing. It always ends up in the same conclusion, and so he skips right to it: “I love you, Keith.”

Lance pulls him forward, gently tugging him towards the center of the circle, and Keith hears a whoop from somewhere in the crowd that  _ must _ be Isabella and feels the flush warm the back of his neck. He's twenty-eight for God's sake,  _ why does the teasing still get to him _ ?

Because it's Lance.

Because he's so, so in love.

And it's not the embarrassment that makes him blush, but the way that looking at Lance under moonlight still makes butterflies flutter against his stomach. He thought that maybe one day the crush would simmer into a softer flame—and some days it does—but really, there are still times he finds himself wondering how it is he managed to trick Lance into marrying him.

Six years.

Keith feels like crying, like laughing—he doesn't know. His skin tingles with warmth as it begins to glow, and he feels lightheaded. Lance has the softest expression on his face while he watches Keith experience the Keelin magic, as it curls around his skin and solidifies into veins of light across his body, peeking out from the rolled-up sleeves of his button-down.

Laughter bubbles up from inside his chest, and with it the urge to  _ move _ . He doesn't know if that's a product of the magic, or if it's just a product of the joy induced by said magic, but does it really matter when he has Lance's hand in his and a dulcet hum surrounding them? Keith doesn't know where it's from—the crowd has disappeared, he thinks, or maybe it's just because all he ever needs to see is Lance.

“God, you're gorgeous,” Lance gasps out, and Keith finally sees the tears pricking the corners of his eyes as Lance slips his arms around him. They sway languidly to the song of voices, indifferent to the crowd beyond the provided background music. Maybe, Keith might have realized how boring of a performance he and Lance are providing, except... What crowd? There's only an orchestra, a white noise to accompany their love.

Keith chokes on a chuckle as a hiccup forces it's way from his throat. “Yeah?” he manages. “Says the guys who looks fucking perfect tonight.”

Lance laughs. He shakes his head incredulously, and pulls back to twirl Keith with the gentlest of pressures on his shoulder to guide him. Keith closes his eyes as he spins, reveling in the breeze and the way the warm of Lance's fingers draw him back in, hand steadying him at his waist.

When Keith opens his eyes, he and Lance are cast in a purple glow, dark like the navy of Keith's eyes. There's a quiet moment when Keith rests the hand not clasped in Lance's on his shoulder, and then slides it up to caress Lance's cheek.

Lance leans into it, eyelids fluttering shut, and presses a kiss to Keith's palm.

“Marry me,” he whispers against Keith's skin.

“We’re already are married,” Keith chokes out, throat tight with emotion.

“Marry me again,” Lance says. “Again and again. Thousand times. Doesn't matter how many—still won't be able to show how much I love you.”

“Then I'll say 'yes' a thousand times, and that still won't be enough either,” Keith replies, leaning forward to press into Lance.

“God,” Lance chokes out. “We're such fucking saps.”

“I wasn't before I met you.”

“It's not my fault you're amazing,” Lance huffs, but his smile says he's not annoyed about it in the least. He kisses Keith's palm again, and the slowly trails the hand at Keith's waist up to the hand on his cheek, drawing it away. “Dance with me.”

Keith doesn't need to reply, because it shows in the glow around them, the pulse of purple, touched with maroon. The light goes softer as Lance sidesteps, drawing Keith into some vague memory of choreographed footwork that they both learned ages ago—for their wedding, Keith realizes, when Allura taught them an old Altean dance.

Keith feels the tears finally slip down his cheeks, and he laughs as he tastes them on his lips. Lance spins him again, shifts his weight back so that they're leaning away from each other, and then steps forward, letting Keith nearly slip to the ground before he swings him back up. Keith falls into the circle of Lance's arms, smiles wide as Lance dips him, remembering the first time they danced this—surrounded not by the magic of a foreign planet but by the friendship and family forged between brothers-in-arms.

Shiro had cried. A lot. So did Hunk.

And Lance. And Keith himself.

They were all a Goddamn mess, but damn if that hadn't been one of the happiest days of his life, though it only rivals the day before the Last Battle (as Lance calls it) in terms of most stressful.

Lance presses a kiss to Keith's neck before drawing him back up. They break apart, turn, pull each other back with gentle grips on each others' forearms. They turn, facing away while standing beside each other, and then slip their opposite arm around their backs before latching on to the others' free hand. Measured steps—they walk in a circle, before Keith releases to spin away. Lance's hold on him tugs him back, and then his chest is pressing into Keith's back and they sway, dropping all pretenses of keeping up with the rest of the dance.

The glow on their bodies blazes white.

“The color...” Keith breathes. “What's this one?”

Lance presses his face into the crook of Keith's neck. Keith feels the wet of Lance's tears cool his flushed skin. “Everything,” he mouths onto Keith's collarbone, pressing lazy kisses. “All of it at once.”

“How...” But Keith doesn't really expect an answer.

“Perfect,” Lance gasps. “You're so perfect, Keith. God—I love you.”

“I love you, too, Lance,” Keith breathes, awed as he watches the magic evaporate from them. It rises like steam and curls into the sky, joins the starlight from which it came. He feels like he could dissolve with it, float away on the breeze like ash and dust, return to the stars and moonlight until eventually the universe recycles his atoms into some newer thing.

Life is ancient. Keith is such a small, small part of it, and yet somehow, Lance is  _ everything _ .

Around them, darkness descends. The beat of the song around them changes, and then there is the brush of bodies as the crowd shifts the center of the circle to open it up once again without disturbing them. Keith turns in Lance's arms, twining his own around Lance's neck and pulling him close.

Memories rise, not unbidden, to the forefront of Keith's mind, and he tingles with the fade of lingering magic.

“Let's...” Lance starts. Instead of continuing, the pulls away, and Keith follows like a moth drawn to flame as Lance slips away from the party and into the surrounding trees.

“Isabella—” Keith starts, and lets the thought flit away.

“She can fly Blue back if she needs too,” Lance assures. He suddenly turns, backing up against a tree trunk, and pulling Keith flush to him. “You know,” he says quietly, while Keith stumbles almost drunkenly into his arms. “The last time I was here, the Keelin said I should try it with you. I—I didn't realize—that was intense.”

Keith nods, and burrows his face into Lance's shoulder. “What is this nostalgic shit,” Keith grumbles, mock-upset. “I don't remember signing up for feelings.”

Lance laughs, light and unburdened, though it wasn't always. “We've been through a lot, huh?”

“Yeah,” Keith acknowledges as Lance traces absent shapes over his shoulder blades.

“Remember when we met?”

Keith snorts. “You hated me.”

“I did  _ not _ ,” Lance protests, laughing.

“You  _ said _ you hated me, then,” Keith corrects, nuzzling against Lance's neck to nip at the skin there. Lance stretches, turning automatically to give Keith more access.

“So I might have been confused about what a crush was,” Lance hums absently. “We were friends eventually.”

“Eventually,” Keith says between a bite and a kiss.

Lance isn't wrong. They found friendship. Friendship in the two boys they once were, naive and untamed. Where once they were practically nonexistent to each others' lives, they became teammates. It was a rocky start, but eventually...

“Hey,” Keith murmurs. “Do you still resent me for trying to lead?”

Lance's breath hitches as Keith sucks a mark into the junction of his shoulder and neck. “Of course not,” he breathes. “You might have been an asshole, but I was too. That was—fuck, that was  _ years _ ago, are you still worried about that?”

“Not really,” Keith hums. He smirks against Lance's skin. “I think I've more than made up for it, but... For the sake of reminiscing.”

“You know what?” Lance purrs, teasing in tone. “I think you still owe me. You definitely owe me. Dinner and a really nice—ah, God, s-sharp teeth—night.”

“Ha,” Keith responds dryly. “I'm sorry, anyway.”

“ _ Keith _ ,” Lance stresses. “You did what you had to. Shiro was gone. Who else was gonna fly Black? I certainly couldn't manage them, and just because Red can hold a grudge for all of eternity because you abandoned her doesn't mean I'm going to.”

Keith hums acknowledgment.

He remembers the power that thrummed through him while flying Black. He remembers the strength of a bond that was more than he could bear. He remembers snapping, the way Black drove him almost power-hungry, and the way the crown of a leader was too heavy on his head for him to carry. He'd almost torn them apart in his attempts to keep the tatters of their team tied together.

But where Keith lacked, Lance excelled, and he still can't believe they made it through. Somehow, in all Keith's broken reign, they'd found comfort in the fact that the others' strengths made up for their weaknesses. It was a final reconciliation, that they really were a good team. Even if the stress nearly drove them both insane.

“Does Red ever miss me?” Lance croons.

“No, she still hates you,” Keith responds mildly.

Lance gasps against Keith's hair, mock offended. “I only ever treated her with the greatest of care!”

“You almost crashed her into the castle like... what? Seven times?”

“I said I was sorry!” Lance argues.

“Red holds grudges,” Keith says, holding in a laugh. “You know that.”

Lance lets out a soft sigh, somewhere between sentimental and amused.

“Six years,” Keith mutters.

“Hmm?”

“We've been married for six years.”

“Keith, if you're about to tell me 'happy anniversary,' I will leave you on this planet. That's two months away.”

Keith finds himself chuckling, shoulder shaking as he wraps himself around Lance. “No... I just... We made it, you know?”

“Are we going through the list?” Lance asks.

“What list?”

“The colors.”

Keith huffs a breath against Lance's neck, caught. “Maybe a little bit.”

“Yeah, okay. So we've done yellow and... green?”

Keith nods. “Purple now.”

“Do you really need another reminder of how Goddamn head over heels I am for you?”

“Can't hurt,” Keith says nonchalantly, pulling away to meet Lance's gaze. There was a day, once, many years ago, where he wondered if Lance eyes would be just as bright and just as blue as the day they would finally make it back to earth, safe and alive and heroes. On their wedding day, they were sparkling, sapphires worth more than any gift they were given or any gold slipped around their fingers. Keith felt the world fall away, and had seen nothing beyond the days he promised to Lance, all trapped in a glassy gaze that mirrored his own.

Lance's hand comes up to tip Keith's chin up. His eyelids drop, gaze flicking to Keith's lips, not subtle in the least. “I might be thinking a little closer to red, if I'm honest,” Lance whispers.

A flash of memory—a candlelit room, awkward flailing limbs, nervous laughter, and a fluttering in Keith's chest as he panted against Lance's heated skin—but it slips away from Keith as Lance kisses him, slow and determined in the same way that always has Keith pressing up for more.

Lance begins to pull away, but Keith curls his fingers around the back of Lance's neck, nipping at his lower lip as he pulls him back down. “No—teasing,” Keith breathes against Lance's lips, coaxing his lips open to lick into Lance's mouth,to taste the berry of wine still clinging to his tongue.

Lance obliges, tilting his head to better slide his tongue alongside Keith's, pulling Keith closer into the circle of his arms. “You know—” he gasps between kisses, the heartbeats where Keith allows him a moment to breathe before going back in to taste and claim. “—we're still—missing one.”

Keith pulls back, breathing hard. “Yeah?”

“Orange. Family.”

Keith presses a closed-mouth kiss to Lance's jaw. “I think we already have one.”

Lance blinks at him, mouth falling open.

“Voltron? Your family? Isabella?”

Lance flushes, the blush darkening his cheeks barely visible in the starlight. “I mean... More… Um.”

Keith feels warmth flood through him. “I thought—I thought you were devoted to this job.”

“We could raise a kid in space,” Lance says quietly.

“ _ Lance. _ ”

“Okay,” Lance breathes, and laughs, running a hand through his hair as he glances down. “But—I don't know... It's a thought. Someday. If y-you're okay with it...”

“Lance,” Keith whispers, drawing Lance gaze back to him with a gentle touch to his cheek. “Did you really think I wouldn't be?”

“I mean—well—” Lance flails an arm around, searching for words. “I just—you told me when we got back home you were scared of meeting my family because you weren't good with kids, and Jonathon was already like eight by then, and if we were going to adopt, I figured we were probably adopting younger? Though I guess we don't have to. I mean—whatever, it's a big decision and age doesn't really matter, but—”

“Lance,” Keith interrupts, and Lance's jaw clicks shut with the suddenness of his silence. “If you want to adopt a kid, then we can. Whenever you're ready.”

“If you two are naked I'm taking both of your lions and leaving you here.”

“Isabella!” Keith huffs, whipping his head around to glare at Lance's younger sibling, who just sticks her tongue out at Keith in response.

“You know what?” Lance says. “Never mind. I don't want kids. Not until I get rid of this one, at least.”

“Fine by me,” Keith grumbles.

Isabella shrugs unabashedly. “Elmar was looking for you.”

“So instead of entertaining the party guests like a diplomat should, you went looking for me?” Lance fires back.

“Uh,” Isabella manages. “Okay, okay, I'll admit that one wasn't a good move, but I told them I'd be right back!”

“Go back to the party. We'll be there in a minute,” Lance says, and Isabella, for a first, obeys.

“So two years,” Keith says, once she's out of earshot. “A promise to be kept.”

Lance treats him to a soft smile and takes Keith's hand, regarding it thoughtfully. “That sounds perfect.”

 


End file.
